


Caustic Are The Ties That Bind

by Snake (Fatality145)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Post Low-Chaos Ending, tentacle porn hahA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatality145/pseuds/Snake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">
    <br/>
    <i>(Post Low-Chaos Ending)</i>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>'<i>His breath halted in his throat, watching the flame flicker before snuffing itself. The windows were closed and the air was still, stagnant, almost, though with that sickeningly sweet aroma which permeated through the personal quarters of Dunwall Tower.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>                Frozen static from confusion, his eyes slowly adjusting to the new darkness, the pulsing in his ears changed, now outer body, now something else. He forced himself to swallow thickly, listening to the thrum that was almost like a grind, and he knew it too well.</i></p><p> </p><p><i>                “I don’t like to be ignored, Corvo,”</i>'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caustic Are The Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> [Trivium || Caustic Are The Ties That Bind](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3ZYPvijxBI)
> 
>  
> 
> i don't even have anything to say this is just tentacle porn ldoalooldehuehu i actually really liked writing this tentacles are fuckin great they're like a million hands and dicks at once bye

Articulation strengthened between the hands, dominant and not, one more fluid and quick than the other, more callouses on the fingertips and in the palm from holding a weapon, or on the side of the middle finger from using an ink pen. The Outsider didn’t have that, Corvo found, when he would lace his fingers with his, the skin of the back of his palm like marble, raised with the tendons that would stick out as the shade pressed into the spaces between his knuckles.

 

                Easily, long fingers would untie his vestments, pushing the worn cloth down his shoulders, mounds of sheeted bone scathing the skin underneath along his upper arms, leaving streaks of black akin to ink that would fade into smoke, leaving cold burns in the wake. With teeth like razors, the Outsider would bite into the stretch of muscle between his shoulder and throat, a near predatory smirk on his mouth and a look in his ebony eyes. Dark blood would smear, more severe than what would be left when he awoke with come quickly cooling into the sheets or over his stomach. He _liked_ the brutality, the tight, icy grips and the harsh murmurs that would go straight into his skull and make his skin crawl with gooseflesh.

 

                Sometimes, when he would be fortunate enough, he would bury his face into the Outsider’s neck and breathe in the anti-scent, ozone and the smell of sea water stuck to the smooth column of flesh. There was no pulse, of course, but he’d quick gotten used to that, instead becoming attuned to the minute shudders that would roil beneath his lips as he would mouth at the hollow.

 

                None of that would last long, though, before the ground would fall out from beneath his feet and the Void would swallow him whole, a disturbing sense of clarity in the descent which would force itself down his throat and through all of his senses. Corvo had learnt to appreciate it when he got it, strangely safe from the cacophony of what his life used to be, and he missed it sometimes.

 

                It was different, now, with an Empress returned to the throne. Of course, it had its own set of responsibilities and stressors (trying to appease a young girl who believes she is entitled to every little thing - especially those not fitting to an Empress – is as difficult as it sounds), and Corvo had his hands full with them. But, every time that he looked, he thought he could see his brand fading, like the ink of a tattoo falling out from the skin.

 

                He didn’t not use the abilities bestowed because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t _need_ to. There were still threats that he had to extinguish, though blades suited fine. Just because Emily ruled didn’t mean that the Overseers ceased to exist, and, while none of them made a point of picking out his brand, he didn’t desire to bring any more attention to himself. The politics of the throne were a fickle thing, rusted, weak. It needed time to be restored.

 

                There were hiccups, a sleight of hand or a lapse of thought, where, by instinct, he’d cause time to stop, a fallen glass suspended within the air, grabbing it before it fell, those around either not noticing or opting to drop it for simplicity’s sake as time would flow again. The unearthly glow of the mark was becoming something that felt more and more alien every day.

 

                He didn’t look for shrines because he also didn’t need to. Emily needed him and to protect her was his purpose, not chasing shadows for a semi-corporeal touch which would leave as soon as it would come, not for the relief he used to seek after, regardless of the times when he would _ache_ for it.

 

                The whispers didn’t come to him as often or as loudly as they used to, either. When he would lay his head back onto a bed almost too soft for him to get comfortable in, there would be no wavers of energy in the air, or a hand taking up his, chilled lips brushing over his fingers before needles like spiders’ legs would sink into his spine and take him in.

 

                That was before, and he had come (mostly) to terms with it. It was better now, anyway. This is what he had wanted, what he had _killed_ for, stains of blood still on his hands, having seeped into the skin, each death a dash on the nape of his neck, a record, though few in retrospect, it was still many to him.

 

                What Corvo had received was what he used to have, in a majority of the aspects – a somewhat calm Dunwall (still with voices in the shade, still with cloak and dagger, but he couldn’t ask for much) and an Empress to devote his life to and protect.

 

                When Emily wasn’t being taught, books shoved into her lap, professors at least eight times her age speaking on and on about the vast history of the Isles, she would be with him. The gardens of Dunwall tower had been remade in lieu of the fortifications and barricades which had been torn down by her request. They were her favourite, taking Corvo’s larger hand in her own and dragging him along when the sun would be highest in the sky.

 

                Gristol was never really warm, the rays having to strain through near perpetual clouds, but it was comfortable, sitting with the Empress as he had with her mother, something that still seemed just yesterday.

 

                It had taken him some time after Coldridge prison and in his state of banishment to get his former appetite back, to get used to eating things that weren’t partially rotten or peeled from a can in gelatinous fluids to keep them ‘fresh’. As the change in scenery from the Empire to the prison had jarred him, changing back from it had done the same, and the first few times he had tried to eat something freshly cooked and warm, he’d heaved them up, much to Emily’s and Callista’s concern.

 

                He was getting better at it, though, as he basically inhaled the food the Empress had brought them to eat in the gardens between her lessons; tarts, pastries, ripe fruit, Serkonian juices in flasks she knew he liked, though unable to understand why with how bitter they were. Emily was young, demanding even, but she was smart and grateful in turn.

 

                “Samuel said he would take me out on his boat once lessons cease, Corvo,” She said, the excitement barely reigned in her voice, a bundle of flowers in her lap, twisting their stems together into braids. “How long do you think it will be until I get my _own_ ship?”

 

                Laughing softly, Corvo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand (the unbranded one, of course). “We will have to find an Admiral and crewmen for you, first,”

 

                The Empress shook her head, scoffing, “ _I_ would be sailing _my_ ship,”

 

                “And do you know how to do such a thing?”

 

                Emily’s brow furrowed, twisting her mouth down at the bent flowers before looking back up at him, “As Empress, I can have others teach me, no?”

 

                “…I suppose you can,” Corvo answered her, turning his head to the patch of white tulips beside him, reaching a hand out to pluck a stem free for her.

 

                There was a scent in the wind he could only just pick up, something familiar but still foreign all the same, his brow quirking as atrophied petals fell to his palm before he’d even touched the flower. It was so sudden he didn’t know what had happened, brushing it off and reaching for another. The same thing happened as it had with the first, the alabaster petals drying up and turning brown before wilting off before his eyes, being swept away with the light breeze.

 

                Everything became too quiet as he tried to register it, blinking a few times, lips slightly parted, staring at the two stems which then caved in on themselves. That scent grew stronger for but a moment before washing off. Perhaps he was getting sick, though he hadn’t heard of someone hallucinating something so simple but strangely unsettling. He felt fine. And yet, there was something in his gut, in his lungs.

 

                “Corvo?”

 

                His reverie broke as he lifted his branded hand to his face, rubbing his eyes, the scant colours of amber and azure catching his sight and fading into black. He shook it off, looking to the Empress, “Yes?”

 

                “Is something wrong? You just went pale,” Emily asked him, concerned, tipping her head. She hadn’t noticed the flowers, which he supposed was a good thing. He couldn’t even explain it to himself.

 

                “It’s nothing,” He reassured, even while he felt like the food in his stomach was trying to force its way back up, attempting to quell it with another drink. Glancing to the flowers again, he was hesitant to touch them, but he did it anyway, a relieved breath passing by his lips as they snapped away clean.

 

\--

 

Corvo wished he could say the rest of the day was uneventful. Uneventful meant safe and calm. There were good things about boring.

 

                The servants and workers of the Empire gave him quizzical stares as he would look over his shoulder a second time once he rounded a corner. They’d ask him why his breath was quick and shallow as he ran errands, or why his hands twitched until he clenched them still. He couldn’t say why as he didn’t know himself.

 

                Shadows in the corners seemed thicker than usual, darker, and he swore (or wished he couldn’t, also) he could see arms protruding from them, always gone when he would glance again. He could feel breath at his neck, sinking under his clothes, a coldness that wouldn’t go away no matter how long he stood next to the lit hearths, his skin prickled and nerves anxious and on edge.

 

                More times than once had he doused his face in water, the feeling leaving him for a few seconds before coming back, his fingers trembling as he held onto the edge of the basin, droplets dripping from the tips of his wetted hair.

 

                It was easier to believe that he _was_ getting sick than to speculate about anything else, a fever, maybe, leaving Emily in Callista’s direct care for the night as he had hastily excused himself to retire early, the Empress calling after him.

 

                As soon as the door had closed behind him, Corvo pressed his shoulders to it, straining to just take in a breath, coughing as though there were cobwebs in his lungs. The inhale whistled down his dry throat, arching over and pressing his hands to his knees, eyes squeezed shut and blind to the flare of his brand.

 

                There was a pounding in his head but he was relieved to see, when he looked back up, that the shadows his lit lantern cast were average darkness, no clawing limbs, no eyes which looked back at him. That was all he could hope for, really. That, and that his sickness may be a momentary thing, gone as soon as he woke up.

 

                The fatigue which had set into his muscles made it hard to get to his bed, let alone rid himself of his clothes, pushing the elegant cloths of the bed’s canopy aside and ungracefully faceplanting onto the covers.

 

                Corvo had enough mind to take off his boots before crawling up further, pushing his hair back from his face and leaning over to blow out the lantern. His breath halted in his throat, watching the flame flicker before snuffing itself. The windows were closed and the air was still, stagnant, almost, though with that sickeningly sweet aroma which permeated through the personal quarters of Dunwall Tower.

 

                Frozen static from confusion, his eyes slowly adjusting to the new darkness, the pulsing in his ears changed, now outer body, now something else. He forced himself to swallow thickly, listening to the thrum that was almost like a grind, and he knew it too well.

 

                “I don’t like to be ignored, Corvo,”

 

                He didn’t know if he was grateful or something not quite as pleasant as he turned back. Corvo supposed it could have been worse, the scant light which came through the stained glass windows outlining another figure set close by, leg crossed over knee. It had been so long, but he could pick out that portrait from anywhere; strong brow, smooth nose bridge which led into a point, sharp cheekbones and those curves of lips which led to a jaw, sinking down to a slender throat.

 

                The Outsider was silent, eyes on the Heart which hovered in his hand, gears turning in the dead flesh which pulsed due to his vicinity, and Corvo became hyperaware of his own breathing, slow, deep. He was being waited on to answer.

 

                “I’m… I haven’t been ignoring you,” Corvo explained, his voice suddenly more quiet, as it almost always would get when he would speak to him. If the Outsider had come sooner, he wouldn’t have disregarded him. He never could, despite all those times he might have tried.

 

                “Ah, no, of course not,” The spectre started, almost condescendingly, tipping a shoulder, eyes still on the Heart, though Corvo could feel them on him, too. “The young Empress is quite lucky to have you, ruling in a world that has left her tainted. You make sure she doesn’t always do just as she is told, don’t you?” He asked, turning to face him, then.

 

                Corvo felt as though he was stuck in a hunter’s sights, and, all things considered, perhaps he was. He swallowed the lump in his throat. His nerves were still alight, but with something other than anxiousness, anticipation, maybe. Thirst. “I don’t believe in luck,” Not anymore, anyway.

 

                He watched the Outsider watch him, then glanced down to see a smile curve his lips.

 

                “No. I suppose you don’t,” The Outsider slowly returned.

 

                At that point, it had gradually been coming together, the sickness having left Corvo’s stomach, his senses mostly clean. He had to ask: “…Were you…?” He didn’t quite know how to finish the question.

 

                “Yes.”

 

                “Why?”

 

                The Outsider’s lips pursed, cocking a brow. The shadows, darkest around his form, twisted, crept out from him in tendrils that seeped beneath Corvo’s bed, curling around a wooden box and taking it out.

 

                Corvo went still, again, at that, staring at the animate darkness, acting like extra appendages of the Outsider as they opened the box. A cloth inlet dipped inward, perfectly holding the Heart that the tendrils tenderly placed back inside it, then pushing the box under the bed once more.

 

                “I was observing if you were still receptive.” The Outsider told him, linking his fingers together, “If the sweat on the back of your neck is any indication, then: yes, you are,” That smile came back, though with a more sinister edge, that time.

 

                His inflection and tone were things that Corvo couldn’t recreate in his head. He could only remember what had been said, not how they’d been said, and that was half of it, half of what make his own pulse skip a beat.

 

                “Do you believe yourself no longer in need of me?” The shade continued, inky tethers still winding over the floorboards, budding from his shoulders.

 

                Absently, Corvo sucked his lower lip between his teeth, taking his sight away from the other. A different scent was filling the room, something that bubbled certain memories to the surface, interfering as he thought of how to respond, and coming up empty. “…I don’t know.”

 

                “Don’t lose focus, now, Corvo, for this world is not kind, regardless of what filth you may have purged from it.” The Outsider spoke, listening to the other hitch as one of those tendrils brushed over the front of his neck.

 

                Corvo didn’t flinch from it, much to his own surprise. It was cold, as he’d expected, but also with a slight sheen of wetness, a shudder rolling down his spine as it licked under the crux of his jaw.

 

                “It seems there are things that we need to _catch up on_ , wouldn’t you agree?” He was asked, and, only when he heard the inclination, did he realize how much he had actually been _baying_ for it. Nodding once against the pressure of the twisting shadow, Corvo’s mouth was almost too dry for him to speak:

 

                “Yes.” He only managed before the tip of the tendril pressed against his lower lip, pulling it down as the Outsider fluidly got up from the chair. More celestial hands pushed open the cloths, the Outsider lifting a knee and climbing up just opposite him.

 

                “I see you still have not taken care of your instincts, Corvo,” He murmured, the tentacles from his shoulders staccato as they moved over him. Before Corvo had a chance to respond (or even begin to think of a response), lips were on his, and he instantly parted them for the split tongue that delved into his mouth.

 

                Without a second thought, he shifted back as the Outsider pressed forward, leading him onto his back. Buckles brushed against his chest, and he knew it would be called a human excuse once he lifted his hands to grab at the Outsider, to bring him even closer, hunger beneath the flesh for something he had kept denying himself that he wanted or _needed_.

 

                He looked back at the other as he laughed, the sound dark, cunning, those shadows wrapping tight around his wrists and pulling them away, pinning them back. Where they lashed at his skin they left slight burns, shivering again, black eyes meeting his own.

 

                The Outsider kept his palms pressed to the covers, letting the tendrils do the work of pushing Corvo’s jaw back for him to mouth at his throat, over past marks he’d left that healed. Corvo struggled, once, against the dark binds, wanting his hands over him, just to touch him, before making himself relent, mouth falling open in warm breaths.

 

                Teeth scraped over the base of his neck, gooseflesh crawling up from his chest to meet the Outsider’s mouth. He always preferred his actual hands to the tentacles, but they had their own edge, effortlessly unbuckling his vestments and shifting them aside. The shadows ran over his bare skin, leaving jet streaks, curling against a nipple and making him arch.

 

                The moan he gave was small, quiet, as always, and he barely heard the Outsider hum in what he would believe was appreciation in return, licking over his lips. His bleary sight watched the ceiling, crawling with more shaded appendages which reached for him, caressing his face, tracing the contours of his jaw and lips as the ones at his torso traced the shivering muscles.

 

                Leaning back, the Outsider’s forked tongue flicked along the corners of his mouth, sitting on his bent calves, eyes downcast to the tentacles which sunk beneath the waist of Corvo’s pants. He tensed as they encircled his hardening cock, bucking into the strange, slick grip. The embarrassment he used to get from having the Outsider watch him in this state was something he had long abandoned. It was replaced with a kind of satisfaction that he could draw the spectre’s attention in such a way, his lips twitching back from his teeth as the hold moved up his length.

 

                Other tendrils tugged down the material from his hips and thighs, feeling over the thick, tensed muscles of his legs as they rid him of his clothes completely, leaving him naked. The coldness around him was what brought him paradoxical warmth, his body heating in response to the familiarity.

 

                Instead of the Outsider’s tongue in his mouth, a shadowy coil twisted around his tongue and over the insides of his cheeks. It tasted of blood and faint salt, melting to his tongue as he opened his mouth further to breathe around it. The tentacles around his prick tightened at the head, a bead of moisture oozing from the tip and seeping down over the tangible feelers, a smaller, thinner thread tracing the tear-drop shaped slit, Corvo biting down around the one in his mouth.

 

                He bucked again, stilling once he felt a more real palm press to the left of his chest, his heart hammering beneath it. The Outsider’s sights met his own, tipping his head.

 

                “I hope you aren’t afraid, dear Corvo,” He murmured, curling his fingers in on his skin, nails leaving scratches, Corvo groaning lowly in turn and shaking his head in answer.

 

                Ghostly hands felt along the undersides of his thighs, up to his knees, hitching them up, and he let them, widening him out, that predatory look coming back to the Outsider. He looked like he would eat him alive, and Corvo was all kinds of okay with that, having desperately missed the voracious teeth and tongue upon him.

 

                The dusky lengths squeezed around his dick again, his fingers curling into the covers beneath him tightly as something thicker and more wet slid over his hole, pressing against it. He gasped in a breath, and, as soon as he did, more tentacles forced themselves into his mouth, making him sputter and take deep inhales through his nose. That, in itself, wasn’t all too comfortable, but he stopped breathing all together as the pressure began pushing into him.

 

                A few of the snakes left his mouth, letting him pant freely and brokenly as it slid further into him, opening him up, sparks of light pain shooting up from the base of his spine. The hazy fingers at his cock continued to move as though to distract him, but he kept his equally hazed mind on the feeling, hitching his hips up further, the grasps at the underside of his knees accommodating and holding him up.

 

                It was thin, like a few digits, first off, stretching him as it moved out of him and pushed back in, his chest heaving, sweat dotting his scalp, other hands swiping it away. A flush began painting the bridge of his nose, the tentacle filling him progressively getting thicker until he was giving quiet sounds each time it came back. His toes curled as he arched his hips back onto the shadow, his seized limbs making it a little difficult, but he just _wanted_ it, the craving which had grown breaking through his usual composure.

 

                Corvo choked on his own breath as the pain was immediately superseded by something so much better, making his muscles jerk and lock up, jaw opening wide, smooth, wet ridges rubbing over and pressing into that one spot to make him melt. His next moan out was gritty and louder, echoing in the room before the Outsider swallowed it up, crushing his mouth to his.

 

                He kissed him back, senselessly biting at the lips which mouthed his as heat slid down his veins, the shade sighing into him. Tipping his head back with grit teeth, the tendons in his throat sticking out as the tendril in him picked up pace, he groaned through his jaws, feeling the other’s at his neck. His pulse jumped hard each time the pressure past over his prostate, the Outsider conducting the hands like puppets without strings, and playing him like an instrument to a key.

 

                “Not just yet, wife,” He was told, and a pathetic whine burst from his lips as a tight pressure closed around the base of his cock, preventing him from coming. He shook in the shadow’s hold, the sinew of his joints pulled tight along the flexed muscles, aching, his nerves and skin burning. The darkness moved back into his mouth, preventing him from swallowing the pooling saliva, the warm liquid seeping down his chin, slicked over him by the tentacles.

 

                He didn’t beg, even though he wanted to, he just didn’t have the nerve for it, even as he was now, further moans tearing from him as the hands touched him in all the places the Outsider knew too well, engulfing him. It was nearly painful, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything, his thoughts far from coherent giving himself over to the Outsider like he always did, a twisted habit he couldn’t break and didn’t want to. A forked tongue slid up the side of his face, kissing at his temple, darkness sinking into his skin, sparks jolting through his system, his prick throbbing in the grasp.

 

                “Let me see you come undone, Corvo,” The Outsider whispered into him, voice like boiling water down his back, lips at the shell of his ear.

 

                He thrashed, but the shadows kept him still as he choked something akin to a sob, his brow knitting, hair stuck to his forehead and the corners of his mouth, the pressure around his length alleviating in the slightest. It wasn’t much long after, feeling the Outsider’s piercing gaze palpable on his skin, before he came, white heat splattering over his stomach in ropes, the shades around his pulsing cock bleeding him dry.

 

                Trembling, the feeling flooding his veins, Corvo took a shuddery breath in, shivering from head to toe; the tendrils slowly recoiling back into the Outsider and placing him down onto the dampened bed. He was tired, but sated, his muscles knotting as he crossed an arm over his face, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

                Patience may be a virtue, and things _may_ be better if they’re waited on, but Corvo could have used that much sooner, letting the Outsider move his arm away to card his sweaty hair back from his face. That smug expression looked back at him, and he might have laughed if he had the breath in him, a languid smile coming to his lips as the other’s brushed over the back of his branded hand.

 

                “You’ll have to excuse my… _bedlam_ ,” The Outsider told him, smirking against his hand. Corvo laughed, then, breathlessly, before that was taken from him in a rush of energy and shadow, and he left his body behind.


End file.
